Play With Me
by Miss Awkward
Summary: Sherlock's depression heightens to a childish degree; John just tries to cope. Sherlock/John pre-slash.


**Title:** Play With Me; or Sherlock, Leave Me Alone You're Being A Nuisance (unofficial title)  
**Rating:** Everyone, but more accurately, K+  
**Warnings:** Unbeta'ed. Explicit fluff. Suggestive cuddling. Uncensored WAFF. Possible OOCness (not intentional).  
**Summary:** Sherlock's depression heightens to a childish degree; John just tries to cope.  
**Disclaimer:** Original characters property of Sir Doyle; BBC versions property of Moffat and Gatiss. My only profit from this is the reader's satisfaction and the personal joy of writing.

After an entire morning of scouring the net, applying for jobs and turning in resumes, John owed it to himself, he mused snidely, to curly up in an armchair and relax away the rest of the day. Though his definition of relaxation was by no means that of a regular individual, considering who his flatmate was.

But he was adamant, and tried to find some peace and quiet, nonetheless. And after perusing through an old collection of foreign literature—conveniently provided by Mrs. Hudson, bless her, for the occasional management of his sanity—John finally settled down with, The Art of War, and stuffed himself away in an armchair and read away.

Sherlock, all the while, was somewhere in the room. Last he remembered, his head was faced down atop the dining table. Probably going through what John had come to label as one of his "episodes". But the astute would pull through, as was his routine, so John payed him no attention.

A few hours later, he'd become so engrossed in his novel that he scarcely had noticed Sherlock left the room. He heard a sound, but wrote it off as simply another one of those strange, occasional times when he hears certain "sounds". That would go away eventually. And who cared about an annoying friend when the novel you're reading is so fascinating? And the words...are flowing so nicely... And your eyelids...are growing heavier...and heavier...and heav-

Somewhere between sleep and awake, John realized that his book had fallen. But what kept him awake certainly was not The Art of War. Though, he figured the themes in his novel were not far off from what he would eventually have to deal with.

The next sound of a book falling was coming behind him, from the shelves. Sherlock was dislodging and tossing them left and right. John wasn't so sure if he was actually looking for something, or simply making a mess.

But John decided to humor himself anyway.

"What are you looking for?" he asked, calling over his shoulder.

"Bored," came the languid reply.

Bored. Bored? Oh, you can do better than that, John thought facetiously. He really did wish that Sherlock would play along.

"Really? What would you rather be doing?"

The answer he received was odd, but not entirely outlandish. For his friend, anyway. First John heard some more shuffling behind him. Then he heard papers being ripped. He never realized how loud that sound was till he closed his eyes and listened. Just listened.

And shortly after that, the quick, catlike steps of Sherlock approaching behind him jolted him a bit and he sat up. Something told him to look up and he was greeted, hardheartedly, by his flatmate standing—honestly, it was more like hovering—above him with a thick stack of shredded paper.

Before John could part his lips, Sherlock released his bundle, allowing the torn pages to fall atop his lap and the rest of his body. The armchair was now covered in shreds. What little pieces Sherlock had left, he sprinkled—like a baker placing the finishing touches on a cake—atop John's hair.

The "episode" must be getting worse, if his friend is resorting to this, John contemplated in mild terror.

"So, what? You want to make me into a cake? A paper mache, perhaps?"

And again came a wordless answer. Sherlock dropped to his knees and began to untie his friend's shoes.

"Still bored," he said after a few minutes, realizing that John was staring and not posing more questions.

"So? What does that have to do with me?"

He didn't answer, instead slowly raising his head so that John could at least catch his expression. Sherlock's face held something in it that he—for all his well-developed skepticism of the existence the detective's emotions—could only assume was hurt.

"Play with me."

In his lightly sleep-induced state, John was liable to hear all manner of things—so he ignored him at first.

"I said play with me," Sherlock urged, pulling off his friend's shoe.

John still chose to say nothing. He just observed the strange behavior of his otherwise adroit companion. He seriously couldn't recall a time when Sherlock's episodes grew this severe. But maybe this wasn't so bad. Maybe it was a precursor for what was to come. He didn't even want to contemplate that, so John obliged him.

"How?" he let out, a little dumbfounded by it all, not exactly sure how he should now approach Sherlock's feigned playfulness.

His friend's answer nearly made him shoot out of the chair, but he soon realized that the other had no dark intent, so John tried to remain seated, and collected, shredded papers and all.

Sherlock parted John's legs a bit, crawled up between them, reached up to his friend's face and placed his long, spindly fingers on either side, cupping his cheeks.

"Now what? Gonna squash my face in with your bare hands?" John asked, his voice a little too shaky, considering the position they were in.

"Shut up. Still bored." Sherlock's hands moved up to John's hair, barely gliding through a set of tight blonde locks, flicking tiny pieces of paper away. A smile slid across his features, then faded.

"You'll get ripped pages all over you, Sherlock." his flatmate cautioned with a smile. He was growing very much amused with all this, in spite of himself.

Sherlock looked him in the eye once more, a wry grin playing at those strange lips. He wanted to wrap his arms around John's midsection, embrace him and doze off, but he doubted John would budge.

So he opted for the next best thing. He slid down John's body a bit, then placed his head under the other's chin. He didn't really know where to place his arms, so he let them hang loosely about his sides.

The pungent scent of Sherlock's hair flooded John's nose. So that's what he was doing when he had fallen asleep; Sherlock was just taking a shower—that is, after he took a nap at the table. And a whole other score of obscure thoughts flooded John's mind. He didn't bother conversing any further with his flatmate. He was growing far too comfy in the current position he was in, subtly inappropriate though it was.

Besides, he really did want to get back to sleep, especially considering how irregular the patterns were in the past few weeks. And Sherlock's freshly cleaned hair was so warm, and fluffy, it was almost like resting your chin on a pillow...

Some hours later—rather, many hours later—night caught the two, still awkwardly intertwined, still dozing off in the armchair. Mrs. Hudson came in to serve the boys their dinner, but when she saw them sleeping, as they were, she quickly set their meals down atop the table and pulled out a small, disposable camera that she sometimes toted around for just such occasions.

She paused a moment, gazing at the two odd ducks: Sherlock's head was half-positioned atop John's knee, and his arms were wrapped about one of his legs—in the same manner that a child clings to a plush toy in their slumber. Though, Sherlock would have to explain the saliva stains on the other's pant leg, no doubt. John, still somewhat covered in tiny flecks of paper, simply had his head down against his chest.

Smiling proudly, Mrs. Hudson snapped a photo of the two, to remind herself that these tenants were, very much, people– and little children.

End.

Thanks for reading


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